Absolution
by AMarguerite
Summary: Set after AWE and thus, spoilers.Norrington moves through the afterlife and seeks redemption and happiness. He finds friends, makes new ones, reflects on love and duty, eats a mango, and is awkward with children. Completed.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Do not own, pray do not sue.

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Norrington did not know what to expect of death. He was a good, practicing member of the Church of England and he supposed that he has two fates. He could either go to heaven or to hell.

The thought was not a comforting one, as Norrington felt his arm fall back limply and his heart stop and the pain expand, crest like a tidal wave to kill him, like the tidal wave that helped sink the _Dauntless, _and explode into darkness and strange stars and sparks of color. He tried, in the last, few struggling moments of breath, to think back on his life and he forced himself through flashes of memory, of every failing, from the time when he broke the creamer in his mother's good china tea set to the time Elizabeth looked up at him with hate in her fine eyes and blamed him for her father's death. '_This is not enough penance__ for all __that_,_' _Norrington thought, just as resigning his commission was not enough penance for losing his ship.

Hell it was then.

He thought uncomfortably of Gillette, swearing in French, pushed over the railing and into the sea and thought, with a bright, lingering flash of hope, that it was Elizabeth screaming out, "James!", thought that she would miss him, and thought with a strange surge of euphoria, of kissing her and her sudden look of realization (that he loved her? That she liked it? That in some odd universe she could have loved him back?) after.

And then darkness.

When Norrington came to (and he hated the phrase because it was not accurate- he had died and he could not come back to anything, for everything was strange and new and he could not learn it and master it) he kept his eyes closed and tried to imprint the memory of Elizabeth on his mind. He never wanted to forget the salt of the sea spray on her lips, the silken softness of her hair as it hit his cheek. He was good at rationing himself small bits of happiness. Norrington remembered how he had once spent six consecutive months at sea, shutting down rum- running operations, destroying pirate threats, gaining a new truthfulness to his reputation as the scourge of piracy in the eastern Caribbean, and exhausting his strength and any faith he had left in human nature. He was still angry at himself for not managing to be there when pirates attacked a port in Jamaica and began sacking a town before he arrived. After he'd captured the ship and clapped the captain in irons, it hadn't felt like enough and the guilt and the shame and the bitter regret he felt at it. Through all that, and everything else, he'd very carefully rationed out memories of a dance he'd shared with Elizabeth before leaving Port Royale and the memory of it left him oddly peaceful as he lay in bed, relieving him of his usual a sleepless night remembering that he had failed again. The way her cheeks colored in the heated ballroom, her smile, her flirtation, the curls of her hair- they drove out the memory of the blood on paving stones, of gun smoke, of leers, of death and the very conscious knowledge that he _failed_ and innocent people died because _he had not been there. _He recalled times where memories of her laugh and her conversation drove away the restless guilt, recalled how one garden party sustained him for three months, how greatly he had treasured a spray of jasmine that had fallen out of Elizabeth's bouquet and how he had kept each invitation she sent him locked in his desk drawer, taking them out to marvel at them and smile at them and clear away the weight of service and office at the sight of her handwriting, at the memory of her presence. He went through a hurricane on the memory of her acceptance of his proposal.

He was reasonably certain that he could live for eternity on a kiss.

When he had fixed it in his mind, as sure as his old Latin lessons or the multiplication table or star charts he memorized as an ambitious midshipman, he opened his eyes and belatedly thought to breathe. Norrington found, suddenly, that he did not need to, but it proved difficult to break the habit. The sky was dark above him and he vaguely felt (though feel was not quite the right word- like remembering the feel of something, not feeling, but knowing) the roll of the sea beneath him. He carefully reached a hand out to the side and felt wood.

A long boat. He was in a long boat. He sat up a bit stiffly, feeling his hat fall off in the process. Why was he in a long boat? Norrington felt his mind whir and click into action as he scanned the horizon. The Valkyries were to take up dead warriors to Valhalla, according to Norse mythology; perhaps there was some similar service for dead seamen? Norrington doubted it, however. There had been Davy Jones, but Davy Jones now worked for the East India Trading company.

All in all, it was incredibly strange to find oneself sitting in a dinghy with a light in front. Norrington pressed his lips together and tried to count all the dinghies around him. One must know one's environment, after all. The boats were too close together; no one could move. Each inhabitant- men, mostly sailors, women, children- all lost in their own worlds, all sitting quietly in boats right next to each other, not looking at one another. The reserve, the silence, the lapping of waves against the boat (but he did not hear them, exactly- once more it is like the memory of hearing and it suddenly irritated him)- it all seemed strangely familiar, but he could not place it.

He surprised himself when he broke the silence. "This is terribly inefficient."

"There's a backlog," said a sailor in another boat. The boats were so close that, if Norrington had half-a-mind to, he could reach out and touch people on either side of him. He could see the bullet holes in the clothes of the sailor (an enlisted man by the uniform) beside him and wondered if he, Norrington had a gaping hole in his torso. The thought was too disturbing to permit further reflection on the matter. "There's a really large backlog."

"So it would seem," Norrington replied dryly. "Really, one would expect better organization from the afterlife."


	2. Chapter 2

Time passed. Norrington could not measure it anymore. He supposed that his boat moved, but he was hard put to say why he thought so when nothing seemed to change. He rationed out his memories of Elizabeth very sparingly and wished that he had moved past her, as he thought he had when he had been protected from the world through a haze of rum and bitterness.

They did, however, stave off what he should have been thinking about, what he thought of endlessly when there was nothing left to do, no one left to fight- the blood and the graves and-

And back to Elizabeth on the night of her debut into society, when he kissed her hand for the first time and she'd first started to flirt with him. She flirted with everyone. She pouted and teased and acted charmingly impertinent. Norrington (Captain Norrington then, still a post-captain, and the youngest post- captain the service had seen for some time) was enchanted by her manner, by her arch playfulness, her strange inability, even then, to entirely comply with the rules.

He had tried to compliment her, in his own half- eager, half- terrified, entirely proper sort of way, but Elizabeth had cut him off by telling him how irritated she was that her friend Will Turner hadn't been allowed to come, in a strange conversation that flitted everywhere, like a sparrow flying from branch to branch to branch. Norrington particularly cherished the memory because he had danced with her four times (because Elizabeth did not much care for propriety and told Norrington that he was the best dancer there, surely his being on the sea so often gave him such an impeccable sense of balance? and Norrington had been too young and too smitten to tell her that only two dances were entirely permissible), and because she had remarked on how handsome he looked in all his brocade.

Then, in one strange, odd moment, just after Norrington could no longer stay in the memory and thought he saw Gillette in another boat and would have called to him, the boats began to move again. The boats parted, for no apparent reason, and they were splashed with sea-water (or the memory of sea water, because Norrington did not, exactly, get wet, though he tried to brush himself off and felt the remembered dampness of his coat out of habit). The incipient ship rising from the waves, in unfelt splashes, pushed the boats aside, crammed them together tighter than they already were already..

"What is that?" asked the sailor from before, trying to stand on a peg leg.

Norrington knew the ship well. He had last been in command of it. "It's _The Flying Dutchman_. I have no idea why it would…." No, that wasn't accurate. He knew why it could be here. Elizabeth and the blacksmith and the pirate had won. They had set Davy Jones free. He felt a brief touch of irritation at not having been there, of not having done anything worthwhile in their battle, and then wondered how potentially awkward it would be if he came face to face with his killer.

"Ho, there!" shouted someone from the ship. "Apologies for the delay! Climb up one at a time, will you?" They dropped the end of the rope ladder into Norrington's boat and Norrington stood stiffly, trying to place the voice.

"You know," Norrington said, "this is a very foolish and incredibly inefficient way of getting everyone aboard ship."

"Commodore?" the voice exclaimed. There was the sound of approaching footsteps and a figure in a maroon shirt, face obscured (most likely a good thing, judging by Norrington's recollections of the fish-people on board _The Flying Dutchman_) by the height of the ship, leaned over the railing. "Is that you, Commodore?"

"I haven't been for a very long time," Norrington replied, his irritation evident. "Norrington will do, thank you. If you are pressed for ideas, as you no doubt are, lower and raise the longboats to allow more passengers on." He turned to the sailor next to him. "Come on, up you go."

The sailor took Norrington's extended hand and grunted his thanks as Norrinton half-pushed him up the rope ladder.

The figure coughed to regain Norrington's attention. "Elizabeth said you were-"

"Elizabeth?" Norrington asked, quicker than he intended. No, no, no, control yourself, focus on the task at hand…"Ah, forgive the interruption. Miss Swan is not here with you, is she?"

"I wish," replied maroon-shirt-not-wearing-a-proper-coat.

"Were you going to lower the longboats or shall we spend an eternity climbing up this ladder? This way, Miss, mind the gap." Norrington held out a hand to a woman in a longboat in front of him. She looked incredibly confused and murmured a few words in French as she stepped across. Norrington, with his schoolboy's French, managed to tell her that she was to climb up the ladder. The woman looked at him, utterly baffled, but gathered her petticoats up between her knees and, with Norrington supporting her by the elbow, managed to get up and start climbing.

"Oh, right, the longboat. I don't know how all this works just yet."

"What?"

The figure disappeared with a shout of, "lower the longboats!" Norrington gestured at a naval officer sitting a few boats to his right. "Come man, lead the way. This is going to take a long time."

"I don't understand it all," the officer said hopelessly.

"Rest assured that no one does," Norrington replied.

"It's supposed to be 'rest in peace'," the officer muttered.

Norrington frowned. "Such gross apathy from a member of His Majesty's Navy? As Admiral, I order you to get up and assist everyone present to board the ship. Hop to it man!"

The officer hopped to his feet, nearly losing his balance in the process and followed orders automatically. When the longboats came down, Norrington and the officer (one Second Lieutenant Horatio Gordon, who told, in stops and starts, of his death, of how _The Black Pearl _and _The Flying Dutchman _fought in a whirlpool and then came out and blasted the _HMS Endeavour_ to pieces) helped load the boat on their side of the ship.

When the crew lowered the boat again, William Turner, the blacksmith-turned-pirate sat in it.

"Mr. Turner?" Norrington asked, with no little surprise. Then the sudden thought, '_And Elizabeth alone?__ She won't like that._"

"Captain Turner, actually," Turner replied, ruefully adjusting his bandana.

"What happened to Davy Jones?"

"He killed me, I stabbed his heart, they took my heart as replacement- it's a very long story Commodore."

"Norrington," Norrington corrected him.

"Admiral," Gordon supplied, a bit unhelpfully. When they both turned to look at him, Gordon shrank back. "Loading the longboat, sir. Sorry, sir."

"What about-" Norrington began, though he stopped himself before mentioning Elizabeth.

Turner knew his thoughts, however. "She's fine." Then, with a broad grin, "She's Mrs. Turner now."

Norington pretended that it didn't hurt and that it didn't feel as if his heart had been ripped out of his chest and fed to a shark, and wished he had a bottle of rum. No, he was past that. He schooled his face into a vague, polite look and nodded brusquely. "My sincerest congratulations . I hope that you will be very happy, though I do confess some confusion as to how a marriage may work when the husband is the captain of _The Flying Dutchman._" Too bitter. "Forgive me. I am sure I do not know all of the particulars of the case. My very best wishes."

"Thank you." Turner stood, in order to accommodate more people in the longboat, and stepped out into Norrington's dinghy. "It feels odd to call you just… Norrington."

"I resigned my commission in the Navy, so I am no longer a Commodre. I backstabbed in order to gain my position as Admiral and thus do not deserve the title. This boat's full. Haul her up! Mind you don't block the ladder, Captain Turner." Norrington helped a small boy- he had to be a powder monkey, by his uniform and the scars from an explosion on his face and hands- up the ladder.

"How many years have you spent in the navy?" Turner asked, watching Norrington extend his hand and help a half- downed-looking woman up the ladder.

"Since I was twelve or thirteen," Norrington informed him brusquely. "The bottom rung is a bit higher, madam. May I inquire as to where these questions tend, Captain Turner? Watch your step, there. The gap's bigger than you think." Another powder monkey. Norrington hated seeing them here. They had so much yet to see, so many battles still to fight-

"Do you know how to sail a ship?" There was some minor desperation in Turner's voice.

Norrington favored him with a look. "Turner, you ask a former Admiral if he knows how to sail. Have you been drinking Jack Sparrow's rum?"

Turner had the good grace to look embarrassed and clear his throat at the obvious stupidity of the question. "I, ah, I ask because- because…." He released his breath in one long sigh. "I'm a blacksmith and, without much rhyme or reason, I'm also the captain of _The Flying Dutchman._ I've never captained a ship before."

Norrington looked at him incredulously, ignoring the powder monkey scurrying up the ladder. "Are you honestly asking for my _help_, Captain Turner?"

"Yes… Lieutenant Norrington." There was a pause and Turner cleared his throat again. "It would be lieutenant?"

"More like first mate or quartermaster." The crew lowered the longboat down again and Norrington began handing people in. "This, if you had not noticed, is not the navy. I do not think myself eligible for the crew, however. I have no fear of death."

Norrington was surprised to find it true.

The fact that he was already dead rendered it somewhat moot, but it was an interesting thought to consider.

"No, but my father told me that you did not… exactly answer Davy Jones. You did not outright refute him."

"I do not know it you are entirely aware of this, Captain Turner but, one, it is very difficult to speak when dying and two, when someone shoves a sword into the chest cavity of another, it is generally considered to be a negative response."

Turner smiled. "Nonetheless, you did not answer according to custom and you have now been press-ganged into the service of _The Flying Dutchman._ And, to make it official-" Turner pulled a sword from his belt and with a twirl, presented it to Norrington.

It was _his _sword. Norrington absently called up that the boat was full, pulled the sword from its scabbard and he suddenly felt alive again. The good solid weight of the metal in his hand, the familiar grip, the rasp of the metal-

He stepped back, out of the way of anyone trying to get aboard _The Flying Dutchman_ and swung it around as he had done when he first got it. It was a perfectly balanced as ever. Then he lifted it up above his head and swished it down in a salute. "Orders, Captain Turner?"


	3. Chapter 3

Norrington adjusted almost easily to working on _The Flying Dutchman._ Time no longer seemed to matter and that disturbed him slightly. He was regressing- he was a lieutenant of sorts again, yet he was so far ahead of himself he no longer knew if he was living or dead, and he felt far too weary to ever be eighteen and ambitious again. Command and organization came easily to Norrington and he hid his strange, newfound uncertainty behind charts and lists and brocade. Every morning they filled the ship with the backlog of those who died at sea and then they set off when the decks were full (though not so full as to impede the sailors- Norrington was very strict about that. They had a great deal of work ahead of them, but poor planning would make the work innumerably more difficult). They followed charts that ended in great blank stretches where shores should be and that Will had found in his bedroom, a room that had once belonged to Davy Jones and then had belonged to Norrington.

Working on _The Flying Dutchman_ was not as awkward as Norrington originally thought it would be. However, it was incredibly awkward to follow the charts when the ship's pilot also happened to be your murderer.

There was always an awkwardness between Bootstrap Bill and Norrington that, Norrington expected, came naturally when forced to work in close quarters with one's murderer. Bootstrap Bill had been very apologetic about it the first time Norrington corrected his stance at the steering wheel and Norrington had refused to think on the subject or speak of it.

There was further awkwardness whenever _The Dutchman_ picked up a pirate. They, almost all of them, and particularly the English-speaking ones, recognized Norrington and Norrington soon realized that he had sent most of them to the gallows, after a fair-ish sort of fight, and a scrupulously fair trial, free of torture or any hint of misconduct.

Norrington, the scourge of piracy in the Eastern Caribbean, seemed a lifetime away- and it was, Norrington realized, because he was dead now. The pirates remained respectful, however. Not every officer in His Majesty's forces stuck so carefully to the law and made sure that their deaths were clean and quick and well- deserved, as determined by a fair and impartial court of justice. The uneasiness passed, dissolved like sea-foam, and some of the pirates with maimed limbs and missing eyes expressed the wish that they had fallen into his custody instead. James Norrington was always just. James Norrington was never unfair. James Norrington did not hold with torture. James Norrington was worthy of the grudging respect one gives a good man who was also your adversary but who was also so moral it both oddly pleased and astonished you.

These, of course, were not the pirates who had seen him drunk and unshaven, smelling of rum and sweat as he started bar fights and had been forced to scrub the deck of _The Black Pearl_ with his own wig. But the strangeness of it all passed, as Norrington remained impassive behind his wig and hat and brocade and continued to issue orders and run through the same routine until the crew knew it by rote.

It soon became second- nature, lowering the ladder and the longboats, directing the passengers, setting sail. It grew dull, almost tedious. Norrington started eating again, though he did not need to, because it was comforting and it passed the time. He did not allow himself to drink. Only degradation and ruin followed the path of drink.

One afternoon he sat on deck, slicing open a mango. It was oddly delightful to feel the juice run down his fingers and to taste the odd sweet tang of the chunks of fruit he deftly carved off of the skin. When he had been a midshipman, first sent on assignment, he had loved mangos and bought them whenever he went into port in the Caribbean. He rationed them out to himself very carefully, as he later rationed out memories of Elizabeth. Norrington always made the fruit last until the next port.

A shadow fell over him and Norrington, having abandoned wig, hat, and coat to his cabin, flicked a piece of mango peel off of the lace at his wrists and stood. "Captain Turner."

"At ease. Are you eating a mango, lieutenant?"

Norrington sat. "Astute as ever, captain."

"I didn't know that you liked mangos."

Eating a mango was a thoroughly inelegant activity, but Norrington attempted to give it as much class as he could manage, if only to indulge his sardonic sense of humor. "I am sure that you did not seek me out to discuss my fruit preferences, captain," Norrington said, tossing the seed and the rind over the railing and wiping his knife and his hands on his handkerchief.

"No. I- I met with Calypso today."

Norrington raised an eyebrow as Turner paced for a moment and then sat beside him. In between Norrington's quick lessons on sailing, on command, on navigation- on anything and everything that Norrington himself ever learned about captaining a ship, Will- _Captain Turner_- told him everything. Norrington neither knew why nor particularly cared at first, but, oddly enough, they had become friends and Norrington learned of the odd relevance of everything Turner said. And so, Turner told him of Davy Jones, of Calypso, of how William Turner came to be captain of _The Flying Dutchman, _of Elizabeth, and of missing her (because it was something they could both commiserate and complain about, though Will's was quiet and heartfelt and still naively romantic and Norrington was light and completely sarcastic to hide the bitterness and he did not say even half of what he wanted to on the subject).

"We have to tend to the backlog first, but then the real work begins. The active recruitment. Sailing all over the world to find ships filled with the dead and the dying."

"That's how you met Davy Jones in the first place, is it not?" Norrington asked, neatly folding his handkerchief, hiding the mango stains as best he could.

"Yes," Turner said, with a soft sort of simplicity. He looked off into the distance. "I don't know how I'm going to do it." With an odd sort of bewilderment, he turned and looked at Norrington. "I only speak English after all. What do I do if they don't understand me?"

"I speak French and, if it were spoken, Latin," Norrington offered. "And a smattering of Greek and Spanish. I know some of the current crew members speak Cantonese and Portuguese. It would be a simple matter to whip around and ask what languages everyone knows."

"I'm not prepared for this," Will muttered hopelessly. "I'm not a captain."

Norrington stood and stretched before pulling his sword out of its sheath, sending it spinning behind his shoulder, and catching it in his left hand. "Then I shall endeavor, once more, to teach you. Tell me Turner-" (and once more the strange sense of regression- he is lieutenant or post-captain Norrington using his off- hours to teach young Will Turner how to fence, showing him how to hold the sword, how to clean it, how to use it) "-did you ever practice with the swords you made?"

"Three hours a day." Turner stood and pulled his own sword out as Norrington assumed a traditional defensive stance and pointed the blade at him.

"En garde, then."

They spent their afternoons fencing. Turner was surprisingly good, but Norrington had fought pirates for over twenty years and had learned many more tricks than Turner and had much more practice fighting for his life and the lives of his men. Norrington generally won, after which he taught Will how to hold himself when addressing the crew and how to give orders, how to be compassionate without being weak and easily manipulated, how to be commanding without being tyrannical.

Since neither of them were gambling men (Will didn't like it and Norrington didn't allow himself to do it) they spent their time fencing. It was entertaining for the crew members and Norrington's newfound streak of slight anti-authoritarianism (begun only when he had to look to Jack Sparrow as a source of authority) led him to revel in his triumphs. Will was good-natured about it, since, every day, it became harder and harder for Norrington to win and, everyday, in return for the small victory, Norrington taught him how to accomplish a larger one. The passengers lost some of their fear in their absorption, in their entertainment, in the spectacle of the piratical, pretty captain sparring with his first mate and quartermaster, who would always begin dressed in the layers of his naval uniform, but soon lost it- along with his layers of reserve and propriety- in the danger, the excitement, the sheer muscular thrill of the fight.

One day, Turner (now Will in Norrington's mind, because Captain Turner- Will, had asked if they could go by their Christian names) nearly beat him. They were both tired and Norrington had been spooked by seeing one of his men, one of the men he'd lost in the hurricane, climb on board _The Dutchman_ and look at him.

At odd moments of the duel, Norrington would feel the eyes of the marine on him, watching Norrington's quick swordsmanship, his efficient, economical movements, the careful precision and quick thought of each stroke. Norrington could feel the stare penetrating through the blue brocade coat he hadn't taken off. Behind the stare there was the thought, 'Why weren't you this careful, this skilled, with a ship under your control?'

And Norrington knew that he did not have an answer for his failure. The thought caused him to lose some of his precision (for he was always precise- whether in wit or in swordplay or in paperwork; everyone had known that Norrington would get the job done and get it done as neatly and efficiently as possible) and he carelessly left his guard open.

Will lunged forward and for a split- second they both looked at each other, shocked, united in the thought of Norrington actually losing, after what must have been months (years, even) of victory- and then Norrington side-stepped. Will pinned the tails of his coat to the railing, but Norrington pulled himself roughly out of the naval coat while Will pulled his sword out of the wood. Norrington, on the defensive, he felt a flare of sudden irritation- he was _not going to lose anymore._ They circled once and then Norrington felt suddenly sure of himself, felt himself Norrington the Great Pirate Hunter, the golden boy of the Caribbean, the Scourge of Piracy Everywhere and attacked, driving Will to the steps to the upper deck.

The crowd hooted and called to them as Will stumbled up the steps backwards. "It appears that I am the crowd favorite, first mate. If not, then I shall make myself so."

"And how do you plan to do this when you are losing so abominably?"

Will jumped over the blade as Norrington lunged forward, spinning in a somersault to land on the deck behind.

"Brash, Turner," Norrington called back, effortlessly swinging around on the momentum of the sword and pointed the tip of the blade at Will's throat before Will had regained his balance. "Very brash."

Will grinned, as ever, gracious in defeat. "It worked once before."

"But not since, I think." Norrington pulled his sword back and they saluted each other, to the applause of the audience.

"Not on you," Will replied and Norrington felt vaguely pleased at the compliment. After his horrible downfall, he was himself again. He knew who he was. He was James Norrington, and he found an odd sort of contentment in that as he slid his coat back on.


	4. Chapter 4

They moved on, after that. The dinghies, all empty after the last refilling of the long boats, sunk into the ocean-that-was-not-the-ocean. The crew watched quietly and Norrington told Will to go and give the speech they had written the night before to the crew.

"Today we begin our real duties," Will called, his posture carefully straight, arms linked behind his back, face set but not hard and unyielding. "Today we begin to augment our crew. Today we sail in the real world. I trust each of you-" (Will's idea, not Norrington's- Norrington had never before thought on the subject before, but, upon reflecting on it, he realized that he had trusted perhaps seven people in his life, and four of them had betrayed his trust) "-and I know that each of you will do your duty. On we go!"

Norrington looked over the side of the ship. "And so we go."

And thus they began what was, in some ways, the worst part of Norrington's life and afterlife. He could not get over blaming himself whenever they stepped on board a civilian ship.

They wouldn't have died if he had been there to protect them.

The children were the worst- crying, scared, screaming- as they looked anywhere and everywhere for parents already gone. The members of the crew were all navy men and pirates who had left home for the sea when scarcely more than children themselves. They could no more relate to children than speak to seagulls.

After several awkward and draining experiences with these children, Norrington told them bungled stories of naval exploits, and taught the boys how to fence. It may not have helped them in the afterlife, but the aching, unnamable rawness in his chest at their tears and their cries dissipated somewhat.

Shortly after that, Norrington found a cat in the wreckage of a ship. It was a bizarre spectacle- the ever proper, meticulously dressed and powdered first mate clutching a bedraggled cat to his brocade coat- but he had earned the respect of the crew and no one dared laugh.

Will raised an eyebrow.

"It fears death," Norrington replied crisply, drying off its long wet fur with his handkerchief.

"Of course. I suppose you asked it that yourself?"

"It is a logical assumption, as its nine lives have certainly run out," Norrington added on placidly. Uneasily, he approached the gaggle of crying boys and girls at the prow of the ship. "Er, here."

He let the cat jump out of his arms and sniff curiously at them.

The children became enraptured with the animal and entirely lost their fears in the wake of the friendly, fury cat as eager for their company as them for its. Norrington was fond of cats and had been familiar with strays. Generally, they made the best pets. The strays were incredibly grateful and wonderfully friendly- his first friend onboard a naval ship had been a fierce mouser named Sir Francis Drake.

"I feel that I should promote you, James," Will remarked, glancing between Norrington and the cooing children.

"To what?" Norrington asked.

Will was silent. "… Good point. I can- I can see why you rose so easily in the ranks, then."

Dryly: "My thanks, sir. Shall we fence?"

And thus they did, further entertaining the children and keeping them from crying at the unknowable newness of _The Flying Dutchman_, at the strangeness of feeling things only out of habit and due to actually feeling anything. Norrington also avoided a conversation about his merits that he didn't want to have and thoroughly trounced Will at fencing. He considered the day very worthwhile.

Will, however, did not see the matter as settled and (because he was very good at rewarding merit where he saw it) did not accept a fencing victory as an adequate reward. Two days following the cat incident, when they'd dropped anchor again on the sandy, fog covered shore, Will came out of his cabin and stood next to James on the bridge deck. They watched the crew lower the gangplank in a silence that almost bordered on camaraderie.

"I talked with Calypso again," Will remarked at random. "She said that she had a boon to grant you, but she wished to speak with you first."

Norrington turned to Will, not bothering to hide his look of utter surprise.

Will offered him a mild smile in return. "There are never many gifts at my disposal, but I should hope that what I offer meets with approval."

Norrington placed a hand of the hilt of his sword and could not think of a reply.

Will turned away, perhaps as embarrassed at the sincerity of the moment, and walked back into his cabin. "Good. She will no doubt find you when she wants to."

"Ominous." Norrington tapped his fingertips against the railing and scanned the deck for anyone who looked like a sea goddess. "Finds me when she wants to… I do wonder when that will be." A pause. "And now that I've said it, of course she will appear right behind me-"

"Ay wahn to find you _now_, James Norrington."

He whirled around, sword half-out of the sheath.

A woman- Creole, by the looks of her dark skin and long dreadlocks reminiscent of Jack Sparrow's- smiled at him. "Ah, ah, ah. No pulling de sword on a lady. Even one like dat. It forged wid a touch of destiny."

He sheathed the sword and bowed properly. "My apologies, madam." A bit awkwardly: "You never know with sea goddesses, if you'll forgive the generalization, madam."

"Oo, a gentleman!" The woman grinned again and moved closer, her multiple skirts trailing along the deck with the soft rasp of good fabric on wood that reminded Norrington (painfully, extraordinarily painfully) of Elizabeth.

"I would hope so, madam. Shall I call you Calypso or would you prefer an alternate form of address?"

Her eyes gleamed. "And a smart one. Calypso will do. I like you."

Norrington had never been able to smile as easily as others smiled. He had a flash of a grin that flitted across his face when he was truly amused, or when his dry wit and sarcastic sense of humor particularly delighted in an idea or absurdity, and it flitted across his face then. He did not remember every truly smiling at anything out of happiness- except for a few times, usually with Gillette or whenever he had been promoted. The last time he smiled had been when he thought that Elizabeth loved him. After that, he hadn't really wanted to smile again.

"I am so glad I meet with your approval," he replied dryly.

"Of course ya are," Calypso agreed, with a similar flash of a smile. "I am de sea, James Norrington. All Navy men first luv me, and dey find me in de odders dey luv. Tell me ya don't luv Elizabeth fa her free spirit and I will say 'Calypso knows nahting' and nevah speak of luv again."

Norrington felt his face freeze and he stood at attention, watching her movements with a wariness brought on by renewed pain.

"Oh, you don' like dat?"

"No, madam. It is safe to assume that I do not."

She looked him up and down. "You and de captain- you bod have so much de same in ya. Dat touch of destiny, dat inner moral code, dat desire for justice… but I tink you, you more willing ta give."

"I serve others, not myself," Norrington said tightly. "I forgot that for two years, but I know it now and I will not deviate from it ever again."

Calypso looked pleased with his answer and held out her hand. "Walk wid me."

Norrington offered his arm to her and they walked the decks. Calypso had a soft, swishing sashay, like the ebb and flow of the tide. Norrington adjusted his own more measured pace accordingly.

"What would ya do," Calypso inquired, "ta get Elizabeth?"

Norrington almost yanked his arm away, and only the strongest exertion of self- control kept him from doing so. Nonetheless, his arm still twitched and his expression froze. Posture impeccable, Norrington shot back, "I would not attempt to take the place of _her husband_ in Mrs. Turner's affections."

"But you ain't nevah goin' luv no one like her, are ya?" Calypso asked, turning to face him. She reached up and pressed the back of her hand to his cheek with featherlight softness and delicacy.

"I can hardly determine that," Norrington replied. Calypso's dark eyes had mysterious depths that tried to pull him in like an undertow and he felt an irrational need to spill out his secrets until her eyes gleamed, sated with knowledge. "I- I care for her very deeply. I have for years. I don't see how it would ever stop."

"Do ya want 'er?"

Norrington was silent for a long moment and ultimately decided that one should not attempt to lie to the goddess of the sea. Then, tightly: "Yes. But I shall never act upon the desire."

"What do you want, den, James Norrington?"

He stopped walking and stared out at the fog. Finally, he said, "Many things. None of which I will ever pursue. But," and he looked up at Calypso, struggling to get the words out, "but I should like- I should like a chance at redemption."

Calypso grinned broadly at that. "De sea is not dat forgiving, but I like ya. I will make an exception. Ya get ya second chances." With that, Calypso stood on the tips of her bare toes and kissed him very firmly on the lips. She leaned in against him and Norrington automatically grabbed her by the forearms so that she wouldn't fall. She broke off the kiss, grinned at him, and dissolved into water.

Soaking wet, he tried to shake the water of his jacket and wrung out his cravat as best he could.

"Commodore?"

"For the _last time,_ I am no longer-" Norrington snapped before turning to see who dared address him so. "Lieutenant Gillette?"

His former Lieutenant stood at the top of the steps, still dressed in his naval uniform, fog clinging to his cuffs and the corners of his tricorne hat.

"James?" he asked, looking more uncertain than Norrington had ever seen him in his life.

"Andrew."

Gillette smiled at the affirmation and took Norrington's extended hand. They clasped each other with an awkwardness that soon faded in the remembrance of years of friendship. As two British gentlemen they were disinclined to show how entirely overjoyed they were to see each other and thus had stilted, half- eager, half- awkward and entirely sheepish and repressed conversation that failed to do justice to either of their feelings.

They sat at the top of the steps, trading dry, sarcastic quips about the afterlife and how they'd gotten there, with Norrington's sea- soaked Admiral's jacket on the top post of the staircase.

"_Nom de __Dieu_how on earth did you get here?" Gillette asked, with an expression between a smile and a smirk. "I haven't the _foggiest_ why I'm not still back… I can't remember it anymore. I know… a Creole woman told me I'd been press-ganged into the service of _The Flying Dutchman_, but I don't recall anything else. Why are you here? Do you remember?"

"We followed maps. I know it's a foreign concept to you, Gillette, but modern science _has_ made such leaps and bounds. We have portable pictures on paper that represent actual geographic landmarks. Been sampling your family's famous French wines, dear son of a merchant?"

"Not all of us are lucky enough to come from the lower nobility," Gillette pointed out wryly. "And I do recall that you and Groves were fond enough of my father's merchandise, until the one time we all decided to-"

"Oh, God, that! I shall have nightmares about it tonight."

Gillette's expression turned more into a smile. "But honestly, how did you get here? Why are you serving aboard _The Flying Dutchman? _You didn't drown in the hurricane, I mean. I would have known, since I am quite sure that I did. What could have killed off the fearsome Commodore Norrington?"

"Some days I wish it had been the hurricane," Norrington replied, feeling the light, dry wit and the sarcasm slide away. "I- I am not proud of myself or my actions Andrew."

Gillette looked concerned. When Norrington shed formality enough to call him by his first name, things were very bad. "Go on, sir. James."

And so James removed his wig, brown hair (insecurely fashioned that morning) sliding forward and into his eyes. "Alright." And then he stared at his wig and methodically went through the whole of his insalubrious history. How he went from Norrington the Great Pirate Hunter, known for his honor and his service, to Norrington the Backstabbing Rumpot, known for his ability to be sick on everything and his bitterness, after the hurricane. How he resigned his commission, how he lost his dignity, how he served aboard _The Black Pearl_, how he stole Davy Jones's heart, how he became Admiral, how he died, and (most difficult of all) how he still loved Elizabeth and had to live with the harsh aching knowledge that she was married to another man and all the memories of his failures for an _eternity_.

Gillette's silence was comforting. It was an understanding sort of quiet, when no words needed to be said. The cat jumped up into Gillette's lap and purred reassuringly, a light rumble, in counter-balance to the sea.

Norrington stayed focused on the wig as he spoke. "You know, just before I died, Elizabeth refused to forgive me."

Gillette snorted. "Forgive you? You did nothing to her. She was the one who sent you spiraling downward Commodore. I was there. I saw. She refused you and humiliated you in front of your men- and she has the gall to say you deserve _her _forgiveness?"

Norrington absently twirled the wig between his hands. "Be that as it may, I would forgive Elizabeth S- Elizabeth Turner anything. I do not have the power in me to refuse her anything, though it appears each time we meet that she-"

"She uses you abominably? I've been manipulated by harlots more times than I ever wish to admit, but that just takes bugger all, to say that a man needs forgiveness after he's been betrayed. _Women._"

"Yes, women. But I did fail her, just as surely as I failed you and everyone else in the Royal Navy. I failed to live up to expectations, or to fulfill my duties honorably and justly."

Gillette made an irritated noise. "I see your guilt complex hasn't changed, even if you have."

Norrington ignored him. "Can you forgive me, Andrew? For failing?"

"You never failed me, sir." There was a quiet sincerity in those words and they were both still and silent for several moments afterwards.

The ship moved under them and they sailed out of the fog. Norrington pulled his dry coat back on and offered Gillette a hand up. "Thank you. Now to find you a hammock and a position."


	5. Chapter 5

Ten years passed sooner than one could imagine.

Will Turner, incredibly anxious, paced the upper deck, worried the passengers until they disembarked, and refused to be drawn into a swordfight with Norrington. Bootstrap and Gillette exchanged meaningful glances and Gillette nonchalantly brought up four cups and a bottle of French wine from his sea chest.

"I cannot. Really- if, I will _not_ be covered in sweat. It's been ten years. I want Elizabeth to- I want-"

Bootstrap took the bottle of wine away from Gillette. "Calm down, Will. Have a drink."

"I won't be drunk, either. She wouldn't like it."

"She would hate to see you entirely sober as well, captain," Gillette quipped, setting the goblets down on the navigation table by the wheel.

Will nervously took off his bandana and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry. I-it's just…." He turned to Norrington. James, whose posture was so impeccably straight he appeared to be imitating the mast, deftly took control of the wheel from Bootstrap as an excuse not to look at Will. "It's been _ten years._ So much could have changed in ten years. Perhaps- what if she no longer loves me? What if she found someone else?"

"Shall I force you to sit down with the cat?" Norrington inquired, a touch acidly. "You are acting like a midshipman his first time on shore leave in Tortuga." Him, still bitter? Of course not. And King George was really a cannibalistic Portuguese cross-dresser. Of course.

"Midshipmen in the _Royal Navy_ got shore leave in Tortuga?" Will asked incredulously.

"No, but we all traveled there at one time or other," Gillette answered, starting to pour out the wine evenly. "If only to recognize the devil when you saw him again- as in the case of the Commodore, who became convinced he saw all the ills and sins in the world in the one visit and thus was fully equipped in the fight to eradicate them- or if only to say that you'd been there- as in the case of… I assume our still living friend Lieutenant Groves."

"And for you?" Will took one of the glasses speculatively.

"I am something of an oenophile," Gillette replied blandly, leaving Norrington with the thought, '_Oenophile here meaning midshipman-desperate-to-spend-all-his-prize-money-and-get-horrifically-drunk.__'_

"My father used to own a vineyard in Provence and now he is a wine merchant." Gillette paused in the middle of pouring a second glass. "Or is it 'was'? Grammatical structures become very confusing when one is dead."

"You have an eternity to discover the correct conjugation." Norrington looked out at the horizon, blinking against the blinding glare of the setting sun. "Shall we make the switch, Captain?"

Will turned restlessly and, setting down the goblet to pick up the spyglass, scanned the horizon anxiously. "Wait until the sun sinks lower. I want to be sure to have the whole day."

When the time came, Will nervously went back into his cabin to make sure that he looked alright, and then clambered up the rigging as deftly as any topman sailor. Norrington plunged the ship down and into the known world.

Though Will did not call out instructions, the wheel moved under Norrington's hands and guided them to a small uncharted island favored by the rumrunners and pirates. Norrington was familiar with those sorts of islands; he had personally shut down the piratical operations on them when he still thought rum the downfall of western civilization and he had never performed any action that went against his conscience.

"Weigh anchor! Lower a longboat!" Will shouted. "Oh God, I can see Elizabeth. She's got… the longboat! Lower it!"

Gillette passed the call down as Will clambered down the complicated network of ropes. "James, father- come with me. Bring the cat."

"We probably ought to name it," Bootstrap said, scooping it up. "Him, rather." The cat's fur spilled out of his arms and Norrington focused on that instead of the thought of seeing Elizabeth as Mrs. Turner. Why wasn't he over her?

"He shall be Tybalt, king of cats," Norrington replied before his thoughts started hurtling towards Elizabeth again.

Gillette touched the back of Norrington's hand. "Don't hog the toys, James. My turn at the wheel." Then, upon noticing Norrington's abstraction: "What is this? The youngest Admiral in the Navy afraid of a woman? The scourge of piracy afraid of a pirate?"

"Ex- scourge," Norrington managed to retort. "And name one Englishman who isn't half- afraid of his feelings. You don't count, you half- French imposter."

"I'm wounded to the very core of my French sensibilities." Then, a bit gruffer, but with a depth of feeling: "It'll be alright. You're strong enough to handle it."

Norrington did not say anything, but placed his wig on his head and climbed into the longboat.

He could find no satisfaction in the mechanical, automatic process of rowing and found even less when getting out and pushing the longboat ashore, for Will jumped out the and flung his arms about an Elizabeth who hadn't appeared to age. Norrington half- wished that she had aged, had in some way changed from the alluring, oddly enchanting young woman he remembered so vividly.

A small boy came up to them as Bootstrap lifted up the cat and Norrington splashed his way out of the shallows.

"Oh hello," Bootstrap said, startled. "Who are you?"

"William Turner," the boy replied.

Norrington glanced at Bootstrap, trying to hide the initial start and shock at the idea of Elizabeth having a child. "Your family is not particularly creative when it comes to names, is it? I shudder to think of how confusing this family reunion will be with three generations of Will Turners running about."

"Who are you?" the boy demanded. "My mother's the Pirate King, so that means I should get answers."

"I'm your grandfather," Bootstrap said, looking as if he wished he knew how to handle children.

"James Norrington, first mate and former Admiral of His Majesty's Navy."

"You're an Admiral?" the boy asked, eyes wide.

"Yes."

"You must have _loads_ of stories!"smallest-Will-Turner exclaimed, completely ignoring his grandfather and grabbing Norrington by the hand. "Oh wait- you're _him?_"

"Him who?" Norrington asked, allowing himself to be dragged on shore.

"_Him_ him! The one in Mum and Captain Jack's stories. The old Scourge of Piracy who died protecting a pirate."

"Oh," Norrington said, more to say something than anything else. "Unfortunately."

"Come on, was Mum telling the truth?"

"Most likely," Norrington replied. He disliked telling stories about himself. "Do you know how to fence?"

"Yes. Oh! Mum said you were second only to my dad at sword fighting. Where is he anyway?"

Norrington and Bootstrap looked down the beach, at the running, retreating figures of Will and Elizabeth. Norrington repressed any emotions he felt at the sight and merely drew his sword. A change of subject was in order. "You know, your father made this sword for me. I've been through a lot with it. Let me see how you are with your blade."

Smallest Will Turner's expression brightened immediately and Norrington spent the next four hours (an indecent amount of time, he thought, and refused to think on how Captain Turner occupied himself in the interval) alternately sparring with Elizabeth's son, telling him about naval procedure, sharing stories about _The Flying Dutchman_, playing with the cat, and listening to Bootstrap tell stories. To Norrington's astonishment, Bootstrap knew a large number of ex-pirates on the crew who had been sent to labor on the ship after Norrington had brought them to justice. It was then Davy Jones had bartered their souls to cheat death, imprisoning them to the _Dutchman_ for eternity.

Hearing past tales about him and his exploits was… strange. And it was oddly reassuring that everyone would still recognize an old identity he had forgotten.

After Norrington and Bootstrap had exhausted their limited repertoire of child- friendly stories and accidentally told one or two that weren't quite fit for the ears of the smallest Turner, several servants brought out a cloth and a basket of food. Norrington ate another mango as the Turners fell to with all the manners of piranhas. The fruit tasted summer-sweet, and when he was done, he washed his hands off in the ocean, mixing the salty with the sweet until there was only salt on his hands.

He never much liked the syrupy, sugary residue, or the same sort of taste in his mouth when he'd indulged too much.

Elizabeth and Will returned shortly after that and ravenously devoured all that was left. Norrington allowed himself one small tumbler of brandy as Will kissed Elizabeth again and Will awkwardly went off to try and get to know his son. The smallest Turner was not quite so pleased at the arrangement and attempted to get Norrington to fence with him again until Elizabeth insisted, in her best captain's holler, that he go off and speak with his father and grandfather.

Norrington and Elizabeth sat side by side, the mid-morning breeze blowing Elizabeth's hair into his face and the sun beating down on his layers of muslin and brocade.

"_Second chance_," came Calypso's voice on the salt- smelling wind. Her voice was soft and sibilant, a hiss like waves crashing against shore, or the tide coming in and going out.

Norrington glanced at Elizabeth. "Er, Mrs. Turner-"

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth said suddenly.

Norrington, a bit startled, looked down into his glass. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I should ask if you can ever grant me your forgiveness. You refused me the last time we met. Do you recall that? It was rather a busy evening, what with your capture, imprisonment, and escape and my sudden demise. Trifles, really, but they do so pile up."

"Of course you have my forgiveness," Elizabeth replied impatiently. "If not for what you did for me over all the years, then for what you did for Will. He told me how you helped him. And what's more, James Norrington, you have the unceasing admiration of my son and he's turning out to be an excellent judge of character. I don't know how you managed to win it in four hours, but you did. For all that, I never realized-"

Norrington swallowed down the brandy, grimacing against the burn. "I thank you for your forgiveness." _Belated as it is_, he thought.

"Stop interrupting," Elizabeth snapped, irritable. "Listen to me! I'm sorry I didn't recognize how much you did for me until after you died." Softer, almost gentle: "I never stopped mourning you." She plucked at her black skirt, looking suddenly weary. "I missed you."

Norrington did not say anything, but there was the unspoken fact that he had missed her more than Elizabeth could ever quite understand.

"You're the only good man I have ever met, James," she continued on, leaning against his shoulder. "Not counting Will. Though… he double-crossed me just as I did to him, even though we love each other. You never did- or never would."

"If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other also," Norrington quoted absently, setting the glass down in the sand. "I apologize. I forgot that after the hurricane. I made the grievous error of forgetting that I serve others."

"No one else would ever have thought of it," Elizabeth replied, her hair whipping around his back.

"But you absolve me of that sin?"

"Why do you need my forgiveness, James? I should be asking it from you."

Norrington dug his fingers into the sand and watched it seep through my fingers. He felt the urge to say something meaningless and sarcastic, along the lines of excessively polite '_Yes, you probably should be asking me to forgive you but for some reason I can't quite seem to always stay clear on that fact and I instead seem to feel like everything's my fault, which is a bit odd really, don't you agree?_' However, any flippancy died in his throat, making him feel as if he'd swallowed something Tybalt caught and let decompose for a few days, and leaving him with the desperate desire to say something truthful.

"I first felt," he whispered methodically, stoically, trying to cut off the pain of drawing so quiet and secret a thought from the center of his thoughts and leaving all the rest of him unprotected, of speaking aloud a doubt he had never wished to acknowledge, "that I wasn't good enough for you. And that was why-"

"It wasn't that at all!" Elizabeth exclaimed, whirling on him, her eyes flashing fire. "James, you idiot, I'm a pirate. "

"Did you prefer me as a pirate, then?" Norrington inquired, in a tone of airy politeness. "Because, frankly, I died every day I was a member of that crew."

Elizabeth growled. "Honestly, James, I wouldn't have made you happy. You've far too many morals. I've come to realize that I have… next to none." When Norrington did not reply, she grabbed his arm. "James, I'd've been bad for you. I couldn't stand living in polite society, on _land_ where everything's so _set_."

"Officers bring their wives on board ships. They even learn how to fight alongside the crew if they are particularly determined. But enough of that. There was a time that I did not have any of the morals you accuse me of having and I beg forgiveness for that. Do you absolve me of that? Of failing your expectations?"

"You're such an honorable idiot," she said, in a tone that almost made it an endearment. "Yes. Utterly and completely."

Norrington smiled. "Good."

The rest of the day passed in a yellow- gold haze of light and the warm sea- scented breeze. For the first time since Gillette returned, Norrington was honestly, truly happy.


	6. Chapter 6

At en year intervals they docked at the same island. Elizabeth aged, her sons (William Turner and then, to Norrington's secret pleasure, James "Jack" Turner) grew up and had children of their own. Gradually, Elizabeth grew too old and too tired to do much other than lean against her husband as her piratical sons and daughters-in-law and grandchildren surrounded their still-young father and grand-father. Will would always come away looking wounded, and Norrington and Gillette would grow closer, because Norrington saw the world change and his soul's idol fade, and found in Gillette the only constant of his afterlife. They would exchange quips until Norrington gruffly muttered how glad he was that they were friends, or how much Gillette's friendship meant to him, or something as poorly phrased and tritely true, and went into the captain's quarters to fence and quip until Will's melancholy lifted.

After the fifth meeting, Norrington steered the ship back into World's End and waited half-an-hour before handing the wheel over to Gillette and walking into the Captain's quarters.

"I'm not crying," Will insisted, with his head pillowed in his arms.

"Of course not," Norrington replied mildly, shutting the door behind him and sitting down across the table. "And I, secretly, have been conducting a passionate affair with Captain Jack Sparrow."

"You don't want to do that. He's got the breath of a donkey with halitosis."

There was a moment of silence. "Turner, do you have the ability to recognize and understand sarcasm?"

"I look the same age as my grandsons," Will exclaimed in an abrupt non-sequitor. "And oh God, Elizabeth-"

"Looks very well for someone her age. Distinct lack of all the wrinkles common to the elderly. Want to fence?"

"She's the most beautiful person in the world," Will said hopelessly, looking up. "I live for my one day on shore. But what happens when she's no longer there?"

Norrington gave up on the idea of fencing and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Now Turner, I'm going to try and limit the sarcasm as much as possible, seeing that you cannot quite comprehend its purpose." After a moment, Norrington pulled off his wig and ran a hand though his brown hair. "My father once told me that one should not look for happiness in human beings, a piece of advice I utterly failed to follow. It caused me no little grief. I think he was, perhaps, right, but I don't know how not to. I have found that when- that since this… reliance on others for happiness is not met; one must change the center of one's affections, or set out to accomplish something. There is a certain glorious happiness in fulfilling a goal."

Will leaned his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. "Did that make you happy?"

"Each time I was promoted or won a battle? Yes." Norrington set the wig on the edge of the table and looked across the length of varnished wood between them. "Any victory has its own inherent thrill of pleasure."

"That's nothing compared to the happiness of being with Elizabeth," Will said unhappily.

Norrington did not reply.

"I wonder… Jack always seems so happy. He's happy because he's free, isn't he?"

"More like perpetually drunk."

"Free from inhibition then," Will continued on, pursuing his theme doggedly. "Without boundaries or rules or anything of the sort. He isn't limited by anything. I mean, not even _death._ He came back from the dead."

"Yet it is the human condition to be limited, usually by our circumstances and most certainly by our relationships to both one another and the law."

"The law?"

"Would you prefer 'the dictates of one's conscience'? The law does not meet with a great deal of respect these days."

Will tapped absently at the table. "What do you mean, bound by relationships? We limit our freedom by entering into them with other people? But what good is freedom if you don't have someone to share it with?"

"In my personal opinion? No good at all. Similarly, if one becomes too enmeshed in upholding the law to the detriment of a relationship, it does little good."

"Love makes life worth living then?"

Norrington looked at his wig and recrossed his arms. "It appears so. I wish I had realized it sooner. Before I was dead, that is, and unable to do anything at all about it. You still can, however."

"By doing what?" Will demanded. "Ask Elizabeth to stop being Pirate King and become… _what_ on board my ship? All the positions are filled by intelligent, capable men and no one's terms of service are up yet. All the others are just… crew members. Elizabeth would not fancy deck-swabbing."

"No one actually does," Norrington replied dryly. "I might point out that the ship expands to suit whatever crew and however many passengers you take on. I might also point out that your father is on board and, although the claims of marriage do outweigh any filial obligations, it is something."

Will stood up and turned restlessly about the cabin. "And for you; has it worked for you?"

"For the most part." Norrington thought of details and could not share them. It hurt too much to drag out something as intensely private as those rare moments when he and Gillette weren't sarcastic and sardonic with each other. "Gillette and I have ever been like Horatio and Hamlet."

"Who?" Will asked, with a distracted glance down at Norrington.

"Hamlet and Horatio. Of _Hamlet._ The play. By Shakespeare." At Will's continuing blank looks, Norrington looked heavenward. "Not much of a reader, were you, Turner?"

"No. I suppose you were."

"Still am. Literacy is very useful, Turner. You should consider becoming literate yourself."

Will sighed. "Just… what… who… were they?"

"Melancholy prince of Denmark and his best friend, who, quite possibly, was the only fully sane and rational major character in the entire play."

Will still stared blankly at him. "They were…?"

Norrington favored him with a look. "Very close friends. As Hamlet says to Horatio, ''Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, aye, in my heart of hearts, as I do thee.'"

After a moment, Will stood by the window of the cabin and leaned heavily against the glass. "I don't have any friends."

Norrington was silent a moment.

Will sighed. "Go ahead."

"That's really pathetic," Norrington said.

"No friends on the ship, I mean. There's Jack, of course."

"What a fantastic friend the pirate who tried to sell you to Davy Jones is, I'm sure."

"Elizabeth. We were friends for a long time." Will turned uncertainly to look at him. "And I did think… I did hope that, since we- that you-"

"Are you trying to very awkwardly ask me if I will be your friend?" Norrington asked, trying to keep the sarcasm from his tone. Saying 'no' would be like kicking a puppy. "Of course, Turner. Would I have bothered to teach you for so long if we hadn't been friends?"

"Yes. Out of a sense of duty."

Norrington scowled momentarily at the tabletop. "Does everyone think me so wholly deprived of feeling and emotion?"

"Er…"

"Rhetorical question, Turner. That means you're not supposed to answer it. Literacy brings with it many blessings, including the ability to understand these sorts of phrases and technical aspects of conversation."

"Oh."

It really was like kicking a puppy. Norrington stood, hiding away any emotions he felt so securely that he wasn't sure if he felt anything at all, and awkwardly clapped Will on the back. "It will be alright Will. If I know Elizabeth she will be absolutely certain to die at sea and then you will have all of eternity to sicken the entire crew by billing and cooing to each other like turtledoves."

Will did not look entirely reassured. "We won't know each other anymore."

"'The course of true love never did run smooth,'" Norrington quoted. And then, at Will's blank look: "Shakespeare again. This is getting ridiculously pathetic. I'll loan you the books and help you sound out the difficult words. In fact, I shall help you in whatever way I can, should you desire it. I give you my word of honor. However, you have nothing to worry about. "

Norrington was wrong. Five years later, they came upon the smoldering wreckage of a British man-o'-war. It was a thoroughly depressing sight, and most of the men were dead before any of the crew members could reach them.

Most troublesome of all was when Bootstrap pulled him over by the brocade sleeve to an alcove behind the stairs and with a whisper, told him not to tell the captain.

"And why ever not?"

The captain of the man-o'-war picked up his own severed hand and saluted. It was an appalling sight. "Admiral. Do you remember me?"

"At ease," Norrington said quickly, shooing Bootstrap to the side and stepping forward. "No, I do not."

"William Turner," the captain replied, cracking a pained smile. Blood crusted over his lips and still dripped down his face. "Commodore William Turner. If I won this battle I would have been Rear Admiral of the Blue. It appears I won't be, then..." He shuddered and spasmed. "God, that hurts."

Norrington crouched down in from of him. "How did you come to this?"

"Those bloody colonists know how to fight. They'll have the French on their side." His breathing sounded horrible and grating. Then, with a ghost of a smile: "I always liked you better than my father. God strike me down for the thought, but I did. You were the better man in all of mother's stories. You were the better man whenever _The Flying Dutchman _made berth and you all came ashore. So I went ran off and joined the Navy." He smiled weakly. "You must know this already." Commodore Turner's scattered thoughts brought him back to the original question at hand. "Speaking of tactics, were you? They seized the tops and cleared the decks."

"I am sorry," Norrington said, trying to express sympathy and trying to absorb young Turner's reasoning at once. "But you go down with your ship. No one could ask for more… I… I am proud that you do so."

"Stupid of us not to have caught them. An elementary mistake." He shuddered again. "You know, I didn't think anything would be worse than mother dying, but this is it."

Norrington looked at him sharply. "Your mother's dead?"

"Yes. Where's father? Let me tell him. I never knew him, but let me tell him. Maybe then it'll seem like we actually were father and son." He choked a bit and dropped the severed hand into a widening pool of his own blood. "I wish you had been my father. I lied and pretended that you were sometimes. Never took the name though, in case your family found out and came after me. But a lot of the lower officers were born on the wrong side of the blanket. I pretended to be one of them. Gained me some respect, actually, though I never did marry well as a result."

"I am glad to have been of some small service to you." Norrington offered young Turner his hand to clutch, which Turner took gratefully. "Captain! Captain, come here!"

Will came, with a staccato clatter of boots on wood and a halo of moonlight around his figure. "Yes, first mate?"

"Hallo father," young Turner said, blinking the blood from his eyes.

Will paled and clutched at the underside of the stairs. "William?"

"The very same!" He paused to spit out a gob of blood onto the deck. "Mother's dead."

After a long, agonizing, excruciating moment, where time scraped by on broken glass and snagged on the tips of swords, Will whispered, "How?"

Young Turner clutched spasmodically at Norrington's hand. "She was old, father. She died of old age or illness. I only heard about it myself. Jack wrote to me and told me she was going to die. She'd been ill for a long time and he was going to take her down to the docks and get her into a longboat just before she got too ill to tell him when to do it. Probably within the month, he said. I got the letter two weeks ago, a month after it'd been sent. So she's dead." He bit down on his lips against a new wave of pain, sending rivulets of blood down his face and nearly crushing Norrington's hand. "Oh God, that hurt."

"We… we haven't seen her," Will said helplessly. "Did… she…?"

Norrington couldn't say anything and stayed silent under the shadow of his hat brim.

"She wasn't doing well and I saw her four months ago," Commodore Turner whispered, his voice fading. "She could've died before she was sent to the sea."

"Elizabeth's resilient," Bootstrap said, moving out of the shadows and placing a hand on Will's shoulder. Will shrugged it off and turned his back on them all, his face in his hands.

"Mum's not that resilient." He looked away from his father and up at Norrington. "Ask, please."

Will didn't move.

"William Turner," Norrington said, "do you fear death?"

The fingers of young Turner's still attached hand twitched. "No." Then, with a bloody smile, "Thank God."

His hand fell limply from Norrington's, and Norrington reached up and closed his eyes.

"I can't do this anymore," Will muttered brokenly. "I can't. She's dead. He's dead. Elizabeth!" He clutched at his hair and crouched on the deck, shivering.

Norrington could not do anything. He felt numb and frostbitten.

Will sat on the deck and sounded as if he were crying, or trying not to cry and Norrington thought that he should offer to fence. The vast, sudden coolness of the world was enough to keep him immobile as he thought and thought and reconstructed everything in his mind.

"I want to die. I want to go into the fog." Turner.

"Will…." Bootstrap.

"_No_!" He shoved his father away.

"'These are but wild and whirling words,'" Norrington quoted absently.

Will stood, a bit shakily. "No, they're not. Norrington! Bootstrap! Get everyone back on the ship, _now_" When they didn't move, Will drew himself up to his full height and, with ice in the tone, snapped, "_Now_"

He stalked off as Bootstrap turned to Norrington. "Why did you teach him how to do that?"

Norrington closed his eyes, willing away the shock. "Let's make a final sweep. I will not have anyone who does not wish to die left behind."

Then the ship, filled with passengers and crew members, guided them back to the island where they always docked on that one day every decade. Norrington and Bootstrap went out, dug as per Will's instructions, and brought back the chest.

Will unlocked it once they placed it on deck. Norrington watched him impassively, though Gillette tried to protest and Bootstrap sank into a corner, refusing to move again.

"James," Will announced, pulling a dagger out of his belt and handing it to him, "This is yours."

Norrington did not move and did not speak.

"Take it." Then, when Norrington still did nothing: "That's an order!"

Automatically, Norrington reached out and took the dagger.

"Now please stab my heart."

Norrington did not move, but found his voice. It was low and deep and utterly calm. "You are mad."

"Stab it," Will repeated, equally calmly.

"No."

Will looked up at him, expressionless. "I once told you that you deserved promotion and also that I never had many gifts at my disposal but what I had to give I hoped met with approval." Norrington looked down at the wicked gleam of the moonlight on the edge of the blade and did nothing. "Five years ago you called me your friend."

"And I consider myself your friend still, which is one of _many_ reasons why I will not do this."

Will looked at him steadily. "I do not trust anyone else as captain of this ship. I do not trust anyone else to fulfill the duties." Then, quieter, full of abject misery and a painful rawness: "Please. I can't live without her. You're stronger than I will ever be. You could give her up to see her happy. I'm too weak, too cowardly, too… too whatever you'd like to live without her." Then, softer still: "You gave me your word of honor you would help me, James."

He was trapped.

Norrington turned to Gillette. Roughly: "When I've stabbed the heart, take the dagger from my probably lifeless fingers and carve out my heart."

Gillette looked like he wanted to say something but just managed to utter "Oui". He stood next to his friend.

Norrington knelt and slowly turned the chest towards him. "You are certain of this?"

"Positive," Will replied. And then Norrington carefully aimed and stabbed the still beating heat of William Turner. He turned to Gillette, who took the dagger from his hand and plunged it through the layers of clothing , finally piercing the soft flesh and hard bone to reach James's heart. There was pain and confusion as the ship morphed beneath them, and Norrington felt his duties weigh heavily upon him and he died for the second time as he fell onto the deck- but didn't hit the deck as Gillette caught him and sang children's songs in French over Norrington's shaky breaths and hisses of pain.

For no reason Norrington could discern, Gillette stopped singing mid-note, and the world shuddered to a halt. Norrington stood, stiff, sore, strangely unsure, and touched a hand to his chest. His hand was smeared with blood and he could, if he wanted to (which he decided quickly enough that he doesn't), stick his hand into his chest and feel the place where his heart used to be.

"I was right," Calypso said suddenly and Norrington whirled around, a bloody hand to the gaping wound in his chest. "Ya're more willing to give."

Norrington bowed. "Madam, I am once more honored by your presence." The words felt thick and dropped off into the silence like stones in a pool, or like rain on the ocean. The stillness and quiet was everything, so complete that he could hear the odd little splashes of his own blood on wooden planking. Everywhere he looked, however, there was darkness. He knew he was still on the _Dutchman_. He could feel the roll of the sea beneath his feet and he could feel himself adjusting to stay upright (bend one knee, then the other, the other leg straight, carefully, precisely, in time to the waves). Perhaps it was just like when he had first died? Feeling things out of habit?

Calypso grinned at him, almost wickedly. She walked over and her footsteps were unnaturally loud in the stillness. Her skirts whispered warnings, as they rasped across floorboards invisible in the darkness. All he could see was Calypso and himself.

"Ya think ya did Turner a good turn, den?"

"I would hope so, madam. Otherwise, this entire action would be somewhat pointless."

"Dat was your only motive?"

"I have no idea what my motives were." Helplessly: "I am often told that I am an honorable idiot. I suppose it to be the chief factor in many of my actions."

"No thought of your own promotion?"

"What?"

"I tink you answer my question wid dat." When she looked at him, studying him, her eyes were dangerous, deep, dark, like water over coral reefs and unexpected sandbars. "Ya still wahn ya second chances, James Norrington?"

"As ever."

"Constant."

"I generally am, madam."

She grinned at that, a pleased, feral sort of smile that reminded him of how very wild the sea was, how very little supported the seeming solidarity of the naval profession. "What will you give me in return?"

Norrington took his hand off his chest, willing away his slight fear, his nervousness, his guardedness.

"An afterlife of service," he said. "It is all I can give."

"It is more den odders offer." She placed her fingertips (cool, feeling wet without being wet, like seaweed before it dried) on his forehead and trailed them down to his chest, stopping just above where his heart had been. Calypso looked speculative and splayed her fingers there, pressing down her palm. "Ya lost ya heart a long time ago."

"First to the sea, then to Elizabeth," he replied. "A sad progression. Never got my heart back and neither were capable of returning the sentiment."

"Ah, ya wrong." She leaned in closer, her lips by his ear, her hand on his chest. Calypso smelled of brine and limes, of the sea, of seat and the sun, of gunpowder and tar. "De sea is not a kind mistress, but she will be yours. Ya have no one, though, for your one day on land."

"Might I give it to someone else?"

He could feel her grin against his cheek, could feel her breath against his neck. "Good answer."

"Was it the one you were looking for?"

"Who said," Calypso asked, sliding her hand down, "dat I was looking for one?"

His skin felt cold where she touched him. Norrington could feel his skin knit up under her fingertips and he drew a breath in sharply against the sudden, unexpected flood of feeling. It felt as if his entire body had fallen asleep; it was the pins-and-needles pain of blood starting to flow again.

"I mark you as mine," she said, her voice a hiss- waves against rocks, the wind before a squall, a ship cutting through water- and her hand sliding up to where his heart had once been. "O heartless man of de sea, here is your second chance. You are Admiral of the ships that sink. You command the men who do not live and do not die. Your mission is to sail across the Styx, to guide de souls of dose who died at sea to der rest, past World's End. You take de place of Charon, of Davy Jones, and of William Turner. Fail in your duties, and dis world becomes corrupted."

Norrington felt a stab of panic at that. "Rather a grave consequence."

Calypso placed her other hand on his chest and stepped back, looking up at him. Her eyes were the color of the sea at night, as seen from over the railing of a ship. "But you will not fail. Ya are James Norrington de Just, and you will not fail."

"I rather hope not," Norrington said, and the blackness consumed them both.

And then, suddenly, everything was alright.

They were surrounded by fog. Will was gone, as were the passengers. There was no trace of Calypso. There was just the ship, and Gillette supporting him ('_Horatio and Hamlet_,' Norrington thought again).

Gillette sang on very softly as Norrington looked over _The Flying Dutchman_.

"Looks like the _Dauntless_," Norrington said.

"They're all in naval coats, James," Gillette murmured, once his song was done. "It changes to suit the captain."

Norrington smiled, though he felt an emptiness behind it. "So it would seem."

He stood and Gillette helped him back into his coat. Wig in place, hat on, key in his pocket- he hadn't felt so sure of himself since he had been made Commodore. He felt tired, but oddly… fine. Everything was fine.

Norrington walked calmly up to the highest deck, Gillette just behind him, and turned to face the crew. "_The Flying Dutchman_ has a new captain, gentlemen. The change may comfort you, or it may not. But we shall not fail in our duties." He felt himself fall back into the role of Commodore and suddenly felt like an Admiral for the first time. "We shall begin at once."

The wheel moved under his hand as he touched it, bringing them up into the real world. He saw the longboat before they reached it and, as he climbed down with Gillette, he thought he saw an old woman pour something over her head and suddenly become young again. Perhaps new senses came with being captain? Or perhaps it was just magic, as the woman, exhausted by this feat, did not change her appearance as fell back into the bottom of the boat. As Norrington stepped in, she whispered, "I fear death if it separates me from you" and closed her eyes.

Norrington and Gillette paused, struck dumb.

"Elizabeth Turner?" Gillette asked.

Norrington looked down. "So it would seem."


	7. Chapter 7

Norrington laid Elizabeth's prone form in his bed and he and Gillette stood awkwardly on one side, looking down at her.

"The cabin's changed a bit," Gillette remarked in a desperate bid for conversation. "It looks like your rooms back in Port Royale." Bookshelves, close to overflowing with various volumes, lined the whitewashed walls, just as they had back in Norrington's old house. There was his old washstand with the porcelain shaving basin and pitcher his sister in England had sent him when he became post-captain, and there was the clothespress, and the desk and chair and a table that had once been in his sitting room.

Even the bed, with its down mattress and its crisp blue hangings, was a familiar staple from happier days before he'd resigned his commission. It was odd and somehow not in the least bit comforting.

"Astute observation, but not at all relevant," Norrington said calmly.

"If I might make a suggestion?" Gillette ventured. "Don't be around when she wakes up."

"I fear it would be worse not to," Norrington replied.

Elizabeth stirred.

"You've jinxed us," Norrington said, looking at Gillette. He fought to keep his rising alarm and discomfort at bay.

"This is not a promising start to your reign as captain, is it?"

"Will?" Elizabeth asked, propping herself up on one arm. She blinked at them, her hair, that odd shade of light brown once again, falling into her eyes. "Oh, James. I expect Will is busy, isn't he?"

Norrington and Gillette exchanged glances.

"Busy, you say?" Gillette asked. "I suppose one could say that."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "What's happened to Will?"

Gillette hesitated. "It's a long and complicated sort of story."

Norrington could not look at her. "You were preceded by your son, William, who told your husband that you were dead."

"Wha… no!" Elizabeth said wildly. "No, you can't, he didn't… where is Will?"

"We are getting there," Gillette informed her crisply.

"Captain Turner," Norrington went on, lifting his head, "was distraught. Since we ferry the souls of those who die at sea, we would know if you had, in fact, died at sea. Since you didn't appear, Captain Turner thought it unlikely that he would see you again while on _The Flying Dutchman _and thus forced me… "

And then no one could hear anything because Elizabeth started screaming. She flew at Norrington, frenzied, and managed to get in a few good blows that caused Norrington to entirely forget his reservations over fighting a woman.

"Gillette, we left the chest on deck. Do secure it. I give it to your keeping." Norrington seized her wrists as Elizabeth kneed him in the stomach and tried to bring his elbows down on his head.

"Yes sir!" Gillette shouted, running out the door and locking it behind him.

Norrington kept his grip on Elizabeth's wrists and kept her from hitting him in the head. She tried to twist out and, as the ship swayed beneath them, Norrington pinned her down to the bed, holding her wrists and pinioning her body with his.

"Now," he said irritably, "if you are quite finished Mrs. Turner?"

"No," she replied, letting loose a string of curses that Norrington had to respect for their creativity.

"I do not think that that is anatomically possible but I shall, in all things, do my best to obey," Norrington said. "Calm down and let me explain."

"What is there to explain?" she snarled, trying to twist out from under him and failing miserably. "You killed Will, you… "

"That is quite enough," Norrington said, holding her wrists in one hand and clamping the other over her mouth. "I gave him my word of honor that I would help him in any way he saw fit." He felt his jaw muscles tighten, his expression become set, stony, cold. "And he ordered me to take over the ship. I did so."

Elizabeth bit his hand and Norrington drew back a fraction of an inch- but enough for Elizabeth to try and push herself out again and to start the fight over again. Norrington couldn't tell what she could possibly hope to gain by this, but managed again to pin her to a table before she grabbed his sword.

Elizabeth swore at him.

"Do contain yourself." Norrington glared down at her. "Do you honestly think I could willingly do anything that I knew would hurt you?" Then, voice lower: "I thought you were dead as well. I never thought I would feel anything again."

"And what do you feel now?" Elizabeth asked, with a valiant effort against crying. "Tell me James. Honestly."

"Irritation, first off," he muttered, before continuing in a louder tone, "Pity. Slight pain. Guilt. Sorrow. Anger."

"Love?" How could she look so young still? How could she still look up at him and make him long for her so desperately?

Norrington met her eyes. "I thought you understood that that was an unspoken constant."

Elizabeth looked at him wordlessly and then arched up to kiss him.

"I'm still not letting you run free on deck to go after Gillette," Norrington murmured, a bit breathlessly, when she was done. "Nor am I handing over the key to the chest at any conceivable point in time- now or in the future."

Elizabeth let her head fall back onto the wood of the table with a thunk. "Damn."

"Why so dead set to kill me?"

"Rather to be free." She scowled up at him. "I want to go with Will."

Norrington released her. "You can try."

And so she did that night, when they dropped anchor again on the shore that didn't show up on the maps.

"I can't get off," Elizabeth said, panicked, fighting to get down the gangplank.

"I don't think you can," Bootstrap said, from his corner. He hadn't moved since Will had left. The ship had shifted to accommodate him. "I can never see my boy or my grandson again."

"And what about me?" she demanded, whirling on Norrington, almost in tears.

Norrington looked down. "You said that you were afraid of dying, Mrs. Turner."

"_Captain _Turner."

"You said that you were afraid of dying, _Captain_ Turner. The standard service is a hundred years at the minimum. My guess if that, since you failed to specify, the ship will decide for you."

Elizabeth looked like she was going to cry.

"Use my quarters," Norrington hissed, bending down so that the crew couldn't hear. "They're closest." And so she did, causing Norrington to stay out of the cabin for several hours.

Later that night, after a few more trips between worlds, Gillette forced Norrington to retire for the rest of the evening or rather, what little there was left of it. Elizabeth sat in the middle of his bed, clutching her knees to her chest. Her face was puffy and red from crying but Norrington thought that he'd never seen anyone so beautiful.

"Did you know," Elizabeth said slowly, "that I traded Calypso a year off of my life for a potion that would give me back my youth and beauty? For Will. So that… so that we could start again." She looked down. "It was… a few days ago. I wanted to live another five years, to see Will one last time, but… it turned out that I didn't have that sort of time. Calypso came and said that I had a year at most, so I… I suppose it doesn't matter. The year wouldn't've done anything at all." Then, with a bizarre sort of giggle as Norrington calmly put his hat and wig on their stands and meticulously folded his coat: "I only slept with him the first three times. I only spent three days with him altogether, and the last two days we stopped so he could spend time with his children." She began giggling and had to stuff her fist in her mouth to keep from laughing. "I never thought that I'd ever say that. I never thought….." and then the giggles dissolved into tears and Norrington held out the handkerchief in his breast pocket.

"Thank you," Elizabeth said, blowing her nose, though she didn't stop sobbing.

"Is there… is there anything I can do?" he asked, sitting down beside her.

"Hold me."

And he did. And then stroked her hair instinctively and she clung to him and fell asleep on his shoulder as he sat against the backboard. And it was deeply, deeply, _deeply_ awkward but somehow extremely pleasant.

He made Elizabeth the pilot, since Bootstrap clearly could not do his duty and no one could get him out of the corner, nor wanted to get him out of the corner for the mandatory lashing at his inability to perform his duties. Every night she waited until Norrington retired for the evening and curled up beside him- for comfort, Norrington expected, and, as a result, he never went farther than stroking her hair. A few times she kissed him, then thought better of it and went to sleep, which was somewhat of a blow to Norrington's ego, but, he thought, ultimately for the best. The officers and sailors said nothing to him about Elizabeth. He had gained their respect long ago and most everyone, at that point, knew how desperately he loved her and how careful he was never to push anyone beyond their capabilities.

Only Gillette ventured something.

As they stood together on the brig one night, Gillette said, "Would you like me to give Elizabeth the chest?"

Norrington glanced over at Elizabeth, bent over her charts and wished, with an irrational stab of longing, that she could love him in return. "No."

"You love her, do you not?"

Tybalt the cat jumped up onto the railing and Norrington petted him absently. "More than life. But I don't trust her. Almost every time we met she…."

"Double crossed you? Used you? Handed you your test-"

"Yes, yes, Gillette, you've made your point." Norrington scratched Tybalt on the head, making him purr.

Gillette looked at him sideways. "And are you happy?"

Norrington considered this a moment and lied. "Yes."

The next day he paced up and down the deck as they sailed between worlds, missing Will Turner who, at least, could fence with him. Gillette was not fond of fencing and much preferred verbal battles of wit; they were much less risky, he was much better at them, and he was much less likely to be disgraced in front of the crew on so personal a field.

Tybalt determinedly stalked Norrington's heels, his tail as straight as Norrington's posture.

"What are you doing?" Bootstrap asked, stirred momentarily out of apathy. When Norrington, lost in thought, failed to reply, Bootstrap tacked on a, "sir?"

"Walking," Norrington replied.

"Why, sir?"

"Crawling from place to place is rather undignified, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aye aye, sir."

"I am glad you still see reason, Mr. Turner. It almost restores my faith in the human race, though, as you are an ex- member, I am afraid that such a showing has not improved my thoughts on those unfortunate souls still living." He nearly tripped over Tybalt at a turn and scowled down at the cat. "If you keep doing that, I will revoke your name. You'll become a meddler with a suspicious past and then you'll assume a supercilious aspect and no one will play with you. Take that… Iago. No- that villain Don John from the comedy, for you certainly make much ado over nothing, you overgrown-"

"Are you talking to the cat, sir?" inquired a midshipman, coming up to him. The midshipman was a young, goggle-eyed lad, scarcely old enough to have been put onboard a ship, who had cried at the thought of death and who, more often than not, would sit off in a corner with Tybalt when not on duty.

"Yes?" Norrington snapped, distinctly ruffled at being caught revoking the cat's name privileges. "What is it, Mr. Bradley?" He knew the answer before it was given, with an instinctive pull at his memory to look up and scan the rigging. "The _Dutchman_'s lagging a bit. Port a little and bring her against the wind. Send up a few hands to sheet home the mizzen topsail."

The midshipman gaped at him in astonishment.

"It means 'unfurl the biggest cloth-like thing in the middle of the ship on the biggest wooden pole'. Are you following, Mr. Bradley, or did you need further clarification? The cloth-like thing is very square and white and a wooden pole looks like the most prominent part of a rude hand gesture."

" Aye aye, sir. Just… how did you know?"

"Part of the crew, part of the ship," Bootstrap muttered, sinking back into the shadows. "Separate yourself from it and everything goes wrong."

"I do know the parts of a ship Mr. Bradley," Norrington replied dryly, ignoring Bootstrap. He had a horrible flash of memory of the last time Bootstrap Bill had informed him of the fact. Norrington had gotten stabbed through the chest with a large hunk of wood, which had been one of the most unpleasant experiences of his life and afterlife.

It was a very undignified way to go.

"I am surprised that none of the other officers could have enlightened you. It seems we shall have to have a few vocabulary lessons. It is a wonder that we have not all died a second time when no one knows what a 'sail' is." Norrington pressed his lips together, willing himself not to take his temper out on an innocent midshipman who would never grow up. "What is a sail, Mr. Bradley?"

"The big white, square, cloth thing," Mr. Bradley said obediently.

Norrington flashed a smile made himself ruffle Bradley's hair in an affectionate sort of manner and remembered, with a flare of memory yet more painful, of doing the same thing to Will Turner's son that first day on shore, when the smallest Turner had learned how to knock the sword out of an opponent's hand. He suddenly could not speak, but Mr. Bradley smiled brilliantly at this show of approval.

'_Another puppy_,' Norrington thought, half- dispirited, half- hopeful.

"Well sir, er, I was going to ask one of the officers, sir, but Lieutenant Turner, sir, she and Lieutenant Gillette are sort of … of dueling with words, sir, and the other officers are starting a betting pool that third lieutenant Gordon started… "

"Thank you, Mr. Bradley. That will be all."

Bradley saluted, wreathed in smiles, and scurried off to convey the orders. Norrington felt a curious sense of loss at his company and wondered, a bit absently, why it had taken him almost a century to be even vaguely comfortable with children. It was a bit late to realize that he wished he had had children. Of course, to have children, he had to have a wife, first. Any other option appalled his sense of honor and decency.

His thoughts circled back to Elizabeth again (with Commodore Turner, lying in his own blood, constantly before his eyes, whispering, in a voice breaking from strain and exhaustion and blood loss, that he had pretended to be his, _Norrington's_ son) and he plunged right back into abstraction and bitterness.

Norrington sighed and leaned against the railing. Focus on the problems at hand.

To whit, Gillette and Elizabeth did not get on at all and were causing problems among the crew and with the ship itself. If he went up to intervene, they would insist that nothing had happened and treat each other with icy indifference. The sarcasm on the forecastle would terrify both passengers and lower officers alike and Norrington would grow so angry with himself he would refuse to sleep for days and work until his undead body threatened to die on him again.

The wind changed slightly and Norrington willed himself into stoic stillness. At last, he said, "Do forgive my seeming ingratitude for your intervention, madam, but I did so think that I had had a second chance with Elizabeth already."

"Not entirely," said Calypso.

Norrington did not turn to look at her, though he could feel the damp salt spray on the back of his coat, could feel it increase as she drew closer. "Will you let her go? Or at least let Will back on?"

"Y'have no need to pressgang de old captain back on," Calypso informed him. Her skirts smacked against his stockinged calves in a reproach.

Muttered: "For my own personal sanity, yes."

"Y'talking to de sea, James Norrington. What part of dat is sane?"

Norrington found himself in agreement, though he did not quite wish to admit it.

"Y've moved off de edge of de map. Y've moved beyond sanity."

Norrington tapped his fingers against the railing, the only outlet he would allow himself for the tense, nervous energy building up between his shoulder blades. "It seems unnecessarily cruel to continue to separate them."

Calypso's grin was wicked. "No one ever said dat de sea wasn't cruel."

"You know, you really are taking out your bitterness over your failed relationship with Jones on others. Seems something of an error to mix one's private and personal life."

"You are, wid your second chances."

"_You_ are the one dispensing those chances, madam."

"And can take dem away."

"Aye aye, madam," Norrington replied, with a salute to keep the bitterness at bay. "What is your will?"

"I whan you to decide in dis matter. What your heart say?"

"I have no idea," Norrington said, honestly. "It's locked up in a chest somewhere belowdeck."

"What does y'head say, and what are y'thinking of doing regardless?" She knew him far too well. The sea had seeped into him, almost replaced his blood. Calypso knew him as she knew the unexplorable caves at the bottom of the ocean, knew him as Gillette knew his wines, knewNorrington as he knewhis swordand how to wield it.

"Well, madam, the logical thing would be for Elizabeth to leave the ship. She cannot even pretend to get along with my first lieutenant, who has been my first lieutenant for nearly sixty years, off and on, and has been my best friend for yet longer. We would both die again before being separated. Elizabeth herself wishes to leave. She wants to see her husband, who is no less eager to see her, judging by his hasty exit from his duties. Since- since there is this very bizarre bond that defies all logic between the Captain of the ship and the ship itself, I could try to manipulate it to allow her off-"

"Not widdout my express approval. And I express no approval. You and de ship are close, but _I _am de sea, and all ships must obey me."

Norrington turned to look over the railing and faced the actual sea. He was utterly _trapped_. He had spent a life governed by the sea, in its variable nature, with its calms and its tempests. He had pledged his afterlife to the same force. "Have I no other options, madam?"

"Interpret me as y' wish, James Norrington. I know tings y'cannot know, I do tings y'll never understand. I have a logic dat y'cannot follow." Her smile, half- pleased, half-dangerous, reminded him of sandbanks unexpectedly popping up in clear water, of sudden squalls in clear afternoons. One could not confine a force of nature.

"Do forgive me, madam, for wishing her to be happy," he said, as stiffly and formally as he could make it sound.

"And y've staked y'happiness on dat." It was an unequivocal truth. He had a miserable 'damned if you do, damned if you don't' situation circling him. They had always circled him. Norrington could not be happy with Elizabeth this miserable and potentially homicidal, yet the idea of her and Turner spending the rest of eternity together was equal death to his abortive attempts at happiness. He had to base his happiness in people- he had to, though it hurt him so irreparably, though he was so bad at it, though it almost never resulted in that spark of joy that set him alight and made him incandescent with sheer _joie de vivre_. Norrington did not know how to do anything else. He was happy when he saved people, when he was thanked, when he was loved, when he was commended. The chief joy of action, of risking his life, of fighting so hard and with so little thought to himself was the idea that he would be serving others and earning their respect.

Calypso looked oddly kind as she walked over to him, balancing easily against the bobbing of the ship. "Put y'happiness in something dat cannot be taken from you. I give you dis advice James Norrington- do not look outside y'self."

"I dislike myself too much to look _inside_," Norrington replied, biting down on his bewilderment and hiding behind his sarcasm. "Besides which, madam, it is a little difficult to fix human anatomy so that my eyes can look inside my body instead of outside. I have no idea what goes on inside now, either, since I have no heart, which, doubtless, causes innumerable complications in my inner parts. I imagine my death must have significantly rearranged them as well, since, when one has a block of wood driven through one's torso, some organs are bound to shift during said process. No- I think I should prefer to remained unenlightened."

She pressed her hands over his heart, the seawater soaking through his brocade. It was familiar and alien, like swimming after a long stretch of time, like scrambling up the rigging like a midshipman as a captain. "Peace."

He stood at stiff attention and warred internally. After a moment he got past his ever-ready sarcasm and reserve and gritted out, "Then, madam, please tell me something I can understand."

"Take joy in action and in de constant. Reward is uncertain."

Norrington could not think of a polite way to express his sentiments on such advice but still managed to restrain himself to a heavy- handed, "That was _supremely_ _helpful,_ madam. I just cannot tell you how much more I understand as a result! Really, just… amazing fulfillment of my second request to you in my entire afterlife. Such graciousness and condescension."

"Interpret me as y'like," she whispered, her voice the sound of breakers on the sand. Calypso dissolved into seafoam and saltwater, soaking him utterly and splashing Tybalt in the process.

"Why does this always happen?" Norrington growled, taking off his boot and pouring its contents into the ocean. A hiss alerted him of his bad aim. "My apologies, Tybalt. See? I've given you your name back. If reward is not certain, consolation prizes are, damn it."

He borrowed the handkerchief off of a seaman and dried off Tybalt in a cursory fashion before handing the cat off to the delighted midshipman Bradley, bellowing the crew into a few drills, and then bellowing more when they did not do the drills right. When he had sufficiently rid himself of his foul temper and terrified the crew into astonishing efficiency and efficacy, he walked back to his rooms with all the dignity he possessed while creating new rivers on the deck.

Calypso had unknown depths, most of which his brocade had ineptly absorbed.

Elizabeth, apparently having finished her quarrel with Gillette, sat on his bed and looked up at him as he came in. Norrington took off his hat out of respect, and dumped a full pint of seawater onto the floor. When he pressed it to his chest out of embarrassment, it made a strange squelching noise and caused a miniature waterfall.

The silence was deep and very awkward.

"I'm planning on bathing, Captain Turner," he said.

"As is apparent."

"I assumed so. It would, perhaps, be best if you absented yourself."

"I've been married," Elizabeth replied pointedly.

"Not to me, madam. I would prefer it if you absented yourself." If only for his own sake. Norrington walked behind the screen hiding the tub and looked out from behind it at Elizabeth. "At _least_ have the decency to turn around, Captain Turner. Not everyone cares to flaunt propriety."

Elizabeth huffily did so as, with a pop, _The Flying Dutchman _made a new room around the tub and filled the tub with hot water. Norrington uneasily patted the side of the ship. "Er, thanks."

After bathing, he changed into a clean shirt and breeches, adjusting the linen cuffs on his sleeves as he walked out of the room.

"Don't you have a valet?" Elizabeth asked, facing him. She had, as he rather expected, but wished otherwise,ignored his request entirely and made herself very comfortable on the bed.

"No, I do not," Norrington replied, buttoning the collar of his shirt. "I have never felt the need of one."

"Or a ship's steward?"

"Oddly enough, the ship itself has always seen to my needs."

"Who brought me clothes then?" Elizabeth tapped a trunk at the foot of the bed and looked up at him curiously.

"If not Gillette, then I assume the ship did. It… changes to respond to the needs of the captain and the crew." He ran a hand through his untidy, wet queue of brown hair and sat on the bed beside her. "It is an odd adjustment to make, but the Dutchman is a good ship- supremely helpful and capable in all respects. I could not have imagined a better flag ship." The timbers creaked in what Norrington interpreted as pleasure.

He surely was going mad.

"Here, let me," Elizabeth offered, apparently in a domestic mood. She pushed his hand away from his hair and picked up a brush on the bedside table. She knelt behind him, gently brushing his hair out. Norrington closed his eyes. It was a strangely soothing experience. "You know, I've been thinking… "

"Dangerous pastime."

"I know. But I did hit on a question I can't answer. Why is it you still love me?"

Norrington could not answer and wished he would never have to. The rawness in his throat surprised, him; the bitter, sorrowful taste in his mouth still choked him when he choked back his feelings. Any reasons he had once had, which had once been as sharp and clear and set and defined as the Articles of War, had long since festered like an old wound and crusted over in hideous scars that blocked out everything but the feeling of pain and slight revulsion at the thought of their cause.

"It's been fifty-six years since I first rejected you and still you…."

Hastily, bitterly: "I've always had something of a masochistic streak."

"You love me to punish yourself?"

"No, but it did work out that way very neatly, did it not? I can no longer explain why, Elizabeth." Still bitterly, though his eyes were still closed and Elizabeth still threaded her fingers through his hair: "Be satisfied that I do and I suffer daily for it. Does that help at all in the face of your lost husband?"

"I never thought 'til death do us part' would apply," Elizabeth said absently, before she pulled painfully on his queue and kissed him.

Norrington did not protest as she clung to him and kissed him almost painfully, as if trying to leave herself and meld into him. He did, however, draw back, as instinctively as a man would draw back from an open flame when she turned him around and began sliding out of her shirt.

"I doubt you want this to go so far, Mrs. Turner."

"Elizabeth."

"Captain Turner."

"James Norrington," Elizabeth said, pulling her shirt off entirely and revealing that she did not, in fact, wear a corset, "You are an honorable idiot and for some reason I can't help but like you."

"Ah," Norrington said, unsure of how to respond.

"Don't you want this?"

"I thought that much was obvious." Look up, focus on her face….

"Then shut up and kiss me." Then, roughly, when Norrington looked at her skeptically, remembering the continual pain of rejection: "Will is dead and ever since you died I've been plagued with dreams of who I might have been, what I might have been, where I might have been if I had stayed with you. My eldest son told me nearly every day that he wished you were his father." She turned away from him and hugged her chest, looking so helplessly young, so alone and wounded that Norrington nearly thought that Elizabeth could love him. The hope suddenly flooded him, blinded him in blazing bursts of cannon fire and he had to clutch his hands together hard enough to make the knuckles white to keep from reaching out to her.

Elizabeth sounded almost bitter. "He would have been better off, wouldn't he?" Her voice trembled. "Would I? I need to see… I need to see if there is anything more than Will for me." With a half-hopeless look: "Will's gone and I won't… there is a very real possibility that I'll never see him again. I've spent so much time wishing for him, being in love with him, I don't suppose I ever really lived except when he was away. Now he's... away forever, most likely, since I don't know how long I'm to serve…." She blinked back tears and Norrington wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, losing himself in her sun-streaked, unbound hair, her warmth, her softness. And she clung to him like a drowning sailor to a rock and all was summer-sweet and strangely bitter, like cut mangos in sea water.

When they were finished, they lay tangled together and Norrington clutched Elizabeth tightly, half- terrified that she would vanish like the morning mist.

"You're not at all like Will," she murmured, pulling the sheets over them and wrapping her arms around his chest. It was comforting, lying skin to skin, pressed so tightly against someone that neither could immediately tell where the other ended and they began.

Norrington nearly laughed. "I'm not sure if I should entirely like to hear this comparison."

Elizabeth grinned broadly. "James Norrington, I do believe that I made you laugh. I'm not entirely sure how I managed this Herculean task. Have you ever laughed in your life?"

"Not in recent memory."

She rested her head on his chest then, her hair spilling out over them like another blanket. Norrington, out of habit, stroked it and let it slide through his fingers like sand.

"I think I could come to love you," she said, closing her eyes. "You're nothing like Will, but I could come to love you." Norrington suddenly couldn't move or breathe and Elizabeth didn't look at him as he fisted a hand in her hair and tried to see if she was real or not.

"Why?"

"What a cruel man you are," Elizabeth said into his chest, "asking me to answer questions you can't." And then she kissed him again and Norrington felt that he would gladly condemn himself to hell if she could keep kissing him, if he could indulge his vain hopes and pretend that she loved him back. She tasted of temptation and though he knew he could regret it, though he knew each time he reached out past the boundaries he had set for himself he would only hurt more, he kissed her back and lost himself in her until she slept and he laid beside her, sleepless. Then he quietly dressed and walked out of the cabin.

He walked up to the top deck and stood at the railing, ignoring Tybalt's friendly overtures. Gillette, on duty, walked over and raised an eyebrow. "You appear to have dressed yourself somewhat distractedly, James. I don't think I've ever seen you look like that except when you became a post- captain and Groves and I took you out to celebrate at that… "

Norrington shot him an annoyed look. "Don't compare the two situations."

Gillette stood next to him and tapped the wooden banister. "I don't like her."

"I hadn't noticed," Norrington replied dryly, pulling a ribbon from his breeches pocket and making some attempt at tidying his hair.

With a sigh, Gillette leaned against the banister, propping his elbows on the railing. "I speak as a friend. I've known you ever since we were young, stupid midshipmen and you got your first black eye defending a half- French whelp who hadn't yet learned that his father's wine would win him popularity. You, oh scarily studious one, used to help me with my sums and I used to help you with your languages."

"I like mathematics," Norrington protested. "It's always logical."

"Unlike you when it comes to one Elizabeth Turner." Gillette looked strange and severe in the splashed pools of yellow light from the lamps.

"Haven't you ever been in love, Gillette?"

"Multiple times, and gotten tricked by more women than I should like to remember. Granted, there were times when I was deliriously happy because of some woman or other, but none of them were Elizabeth Turner. You, on the other hand, have fallen in love precisely once and refused to get over it." Norrington could not say anything in reply and Gillette set his jaw. "There are two ways this could end, James. If you're very lucky, she might someday, some way, fall in love with you- maybe as much as you love her, but I highly doubt it. Even if she does love you back as completely, I don't know if you could handle all the happiness. You have never been good at handling overabundances of emotion. Then we come to the second, the most likely and most logical conclusion. She will continue to act as she always has and use you and metaphorically, if not literally, kick you in the groin. Eventually, your sense of honor will override your sense of judgment and you will ask me to give her the chest and then she will stab your heart and I will be forced to live with the consequences of her goddamned revenge on you." And then, whirling on him, suddenly furious, French accent coming to the fore: "And I _will not do zat Jammes! I wheel not!_ Carving out your 'eart was bad enough and I _wheel not_ do zat again! You cannot ask me to! I zought you would die! No one told me 'ow eet all worked out!"

"Andrew-"

"I will not," he repeated, mastering himself once more.

"I will never ask you to," Norrington replied, putting a hand on Gillette's shoulder. "I am sorry I had to ask you the first time."

Gillette impulsively hugged him and Norrington awkwardly hugged him back.

"Impetuous Frenchman," Norrington said, making it half- insult and half- endearment.

"Stodgy Brit," Gillette replied roughly, clutching at Norrington's brocade coat.

Then, after a moment: "She did say that she could love me."

"Don't base all your happiness on that," Gillette warned him muffledly. There was the unspoken thought that, as hard as it had been for them to die, it would be much harder to lose your best friend again.

"I won't do that again," Norrington agreed and Gillette let him go, reassured. "I got the same advice from Calypso, though hers was a very mystic sounding 'Look inside yourself' which sounded a bit more like an exploration of human anatomy than human psychology."

"Very odd."

Awkwardly: "Yes, but I suppose there is some merit to introspection. After thinking over it, I find that I can be… reasonably content- happy, even- with a task before me to complete. I need some purpose to pursue, some service to perform, some… "

"Noble quest, like Galahad and the Grail Knights?"

Norrington smiled. "Possibly. There hasn't been much call for knights on white horses in quite some time. I can't ride, regardless." He looked out into the darkness, trying to keep himself buoyed up in the present, not to slide down and become buried by his own reflections, drowned by the nagging guilt of his known and unknown failures. "I can be happy with them, if only as penance for my inability to perform other tasks." Then, quieter, heartfelt, gruff: "I … I enjoy your company. I find myself happy with you."

Gillette looked away a bit sheepishly and picked up Tybalt, who, easily contented, began to purr. "And that's it?"

"Would you like me to list things?" Norrington inquired dryly, pulled back from the abyss of his own thoughts. "I'm fond of mangos, I enjoy the company of cats, I like maths, and I take pleasure in reading. Fencing is fulfilling." They walked down the stairs towards Norrington's cabin.

"And Elizabeth?" Gillette asked, with a raised eyebrow.

"I will love her if she lets me," Norrington said.

"And if not?"

"Then I will find happiness elsewhere, and hope she will as well." Norrington felt the corner of his mouth twitch up, in his rarely seen flash of a smile. "Right now, I am happy."

And he was. He felt the flash of time stretch out over long waves of time, and thought, perhaps, that even though he did not deserve Heaven, he might find some contentment in this Purgatory, and as Gillette saluted him and Elizabeth sleepily smiled at him as he walked back into the cabin and Tybalt twined around his ankles, he thought that perhaps, just _perhaps_ he might find some measure of redemption.

"Perhaps," a voice said, and the air suddenly felt damp. Calypso's misty kiss on his forehead was wet and briny and smelled of the ocean, of dawn, of promises.

He felt clean and young and old at once and suddenly, extremely happy at this new baptism, having the benediction of the sea, Elizabeth and Gillette, and a ceaseless quest to bring him absolution.


End file.
